War Stories
by irishais
Summary: It was never about the friendship. Seifer, Squall.


_A/N: Done for LJ's "Final Fantasy Exchange" community. All your base are belong to Square._

_**War Stories**_

_-irishais-_

The area's desolate, some rock quarry that they discovered last year on a hunt for better practice spaces. The clouds promise rain, but the challenge is too alluring to pass up. There's no one else with Seifer's skill at Garden, no one that Squall hasn't beaten a hundred times before.

The storm crackles, and for a moment, he thinks about how Lionheart and Hyperion are just two giant lightning rods, and then Seifer charges.

Metal clashes, _sparks fly, parry, thrust, dodge._ It's like a waltz, their movements, so well-timed, so quick, rehearsed a thousand times with taped weapons until they came as naturally as breathing.

"Give me a real fight, would you?" Seifer's voice is mocking, but he's already breathing hard and Squall lunges.

Steel against steel, and Lionheart skims past Seifer's cheek. He pulls his head out of the way just in time, smirks, and it's his turn to charge, bringing Hyperion up close, blades flat against each other. "That's better," he sneers in Squall's face and since there are no rules here, no adherence to the careful rules of engagement that their Instructor has drilled into their heads, he slams his boot into Seifer's chest, pushing him back.

Seifer looks momentarily surprised--he should be, they know each other too well, have fought each other more times than they can remember. Squall's always been the one to stick to the rules. He laughs, then, pleased at the deviation. _There are no rules on the battlefield_, he's said a thousand times.

Lightning sears across the quarry.

_xx_

"One more time." The look on his face is too challenging, too cocky, and Squall can't help but be swayed by it, by the lure of the dare, even if it means he's going to be late for his next class. Seifer doesn't give a shit, clearly, just offers up his hand, his elbow secure against the table. They've gathered a crowd. Squall's pretty sure that he sees Fujin out there taking bets.

His hand settles into Seifer's, the muscles in his forearm tight and the plastic table cool under his elbow. Zell counts it down, and the cadets gathered around them break into raucous cheers that by all rights should have alerted Garden faculty to the disruption in the cafeteria. Seifer's fingernails are digging into his skin, a cheat, always a cheat and like _that,_ Squall wins, forcing Seifer's knuckles to knock against the table. Harder than he really intended, but whatever.

"Three out of five." Seifer looks pissed, lips tight in a frown and a crease in his brow. Squall shrugs--he doesn't get Seifer's drive to_win_ everything. Besides, Instructor Trepe's going to be furious if they don't make it to her lecture on Junction Theory. He tells Seifer as much.

"You actually think I care? In your dreams, Leonhart."

Squall shrugs. "You're gonna fail." The expression on Seifer's face is pure boredom; Seifer's already been docked town-visit privileges three times this week for showing up to Trepe's class in his civvies. Personally, Squall thinks the coat makes him look like an idiot. "Whatever." He slides back the chair, metal grating against the ground as the cadets instead turn to swarm Fujin for their rightfully earned gil. Seifer snickers.

"Work on your vocabulary, Puberty Boy."

"Says you." There's no real feeling behind the words--Seifer's made an art of cutting remarks and Squall has pretty much learned to tune them all out by now. Besides, when it comes down to it, Squall knows for a fact that Seifer has a penchant for singing old showtunes in the shower, and if that news ever got out...

Seifer's following him now, his stride loose and confident, even if he has to take two steps for every one of Squall's just to catch up with him. "Don't tell me you're actually planning on going to Trepe's class."

"Of course. Why not?"

Seifer shrugged. "Hell, she's got a nice set of legs on her, but she opens her mouth and it's kind of a killjoy, you know?" He snorts as they turn down the dormitory wing. Squall doesn't respond. "What's the matter? You turning into a monk?"

"Blondes aren't my type," he says coolly, and keys in the access code for their dorm room.

"Good, I've got a brunette in Trabia I can pass off on you." Seifer rummages through the refrigerator, coming up with the last can of soda, and pops the tab on it as Squall digs for his Junction Theory book.

"Keep her." Squall emerges from his room, book in hand and fixing the collar on his uniform. Seifer shrugs. "There anything left?" he asks, and Seifer toasts him maliciously with the can.

"Last one." Squall rolls his eyes and liberates a bottle of water. "I can't believe you're actually planning on going to class."

"Kind of what we're here for, isn't it?"

"Huh. I could have sworn that the reason was something more like, 'get paid to kill shit'," Seifer muses thoughtfully. "SeeD manual, page seven hundred and three?" Squall doesn't answer. There are days when he wishes the manual was that long--it would make a decent bludgeon for when he just feels like bashing Seifer's head in.

_xx_

"_Fira_," Seifer yells, and Squall rolls just in time--what the_ hell_, Seifer hadn't mentioned _Junctioning_ anything...Squall's only got a Cure, maybe two. They don't use magic in these fights, never have, so what on earth is Seifer thinking? It's the one rule, outside of try not to stab any vital organs, that they've always agreed on.

In the afterglow of the spell he sees it in Seifer's face--he's got this expression, this wild possessed look that he gets sometimes during their mock duels and sparring matches. "What the hell?" he demands, and Seifer doesn't answer. Another Fira, and it hits, knocking the wind out of Squall. He can't see for a few seconds, but he can smell burnt hair.

"If you're going to fight me, fucking_ fight_!" The words cut through the wind.

The challenge is there, always there, and neither of them can resist it. There's something that makes the blood race, makes them come _alive_ in the duels and the fights, and so when he can see again, enough to pick out the blur of white against the dark rocks, Squall attacks.

_xx_

Garden's air conditioning has broken, and it doesn't help that the TC is designed to be a jungle. Seifer's muttering things under his breath, swinging Hyperion abstractedly, and someone may lose a limb if he doesn't stop it. Instructor Trepe has already called him twice on it.

Squall can feel the GF shift in his mind, a suggestive song right at the back of his head. He knows that's most of the reason why Seifer is more restless than usual; from what he saw (and heard from Seifer) while loading Lionheart, the Junction transfer between the Instructor and Seifer had not gone easily.

"Goddamn," Seifer spits and slices a Grat in half for the hell of it, the fact that this is supposed to be an exercise in summoning notwithstanding. Squall isn't really in the mood for talking--his battle gear is sticking to his skin and he wonders why the hell he picked black leather in the first place (_because you thought it looked cool_). He can hear the roar of the T-Rexaur somewhere off to the left. "Tell you what," Seifer says, interrupting Squall's thoughts. "The first person to bring it down wins."

"Wins what?"

"Loser has to clean the room for inspection."

Squall rolls his eyes--Seifer's hatred of anything bordering on "clean," outside of his own appearance, is stuff of Garden legend. Besides, apparently Xu's on inspection detail this month, and she's a stickler for military corners. Squall isn't sure if Seifer even has a bed in his room anymore, there's so much crap on it. Maybe he pawned it for an upgrade to Hyperion. He shrugs. The challenge is tempting enough to take his mind off the heat, at least. "You're on."

The Rexaur's got Bite Bug entrails hanging from its massive teeth, and Seifer hits it with a Fira just to get the monster's attention. It works, and so Squall throws up the requisite Shell spells around both of them before they wind up in the infirmary. Again.

Lionheart bites deep in the monster's leg, and dimly, he hears Seifer's shout over the roar: "Summon; Quezacoatl."

The world blanks out into a blinding rush of white, and the air is wired, crackling with electric heat. A screech fills the clearing. There's something wrong, though, because Seifer's screaming too, his voice almost overpowering the lightning bird's wail.

_When a Guardian Force and its host are not compatible, this can result in critical damage to the host, including damage to the body, head trauma, and in some rare cases, severe brain damage and even death._ He can hear Instructor Trepe's voice clear as day, and so Squall does the only thing he can remember from the rest of her lecture: presses his hands against the sides of Seifer's face and says, "Draw." Seifer's eyes are wide, the green almost hidden behind dilated pupils as he locks them on Squall's face.

It's the last thing Squall remembers before he wakes up in the infirmary to Dr. Kadowaki telling them both they could have died. The memory sticks with him, though; it's the only time he's ever seen Seifer really scared.

They don't talk about it, except in short sentences when Instructor Trepe takes their report, and a week later Seifer requests a room change and moves in with Raijin down the hall.

_xx_

His face is on _fire_.

"Shit, Squall--"

He ignores Seifer as he presses a glove to the wound and checks to make sure the red that's dripping into his eyes is really what he thinks it is. It feels unreal. It's the first time either of them have drawn serious blood, and Seifer's standing still, Hyperion to his side and the flush of battle-induced euphoria hanging around him like a cloak.

Neither of them are sure what to do.

A thunderclap breaks through the air.

_xx_

"You don't have the fucking_ right_." Seifer's glaring at him, sweat rolling down his face as they circle the ring. Squall doesn't bother to respond, because he's pretty sure Fujin can make her own decisions and it isn't like she's actually_dating_ Seifer or anything.

The athletics Instructor turns his back for a second and Seifer punches hard. Squall can taste blood in his mouth. He spits it off to the side and retaliates with a swing of his own, catching Seifer in the shoulder.

"You're not good enough for her."

"It's her decision." It wasn't like it actually _meant_ anything; they were at one of Zell's parties and one thing led to another. Seifer doesn't quite get this, apparently. Besides, since when does Squall ever have to justify anything he does to Seifer?

It also doesn't take a genius to know that Seifer actually_ likes_ Fujin, more than he'd ever really care to admit, and Squall knows this, has known it for pretty much forever. He's even thought about apologizing, but not for very long nor very hard. "Just because you never bothered to ask her out..." Seifer doesn't even let him finish his sentence, and it takes two of the upper level SeeD cadets to pry them off of one another.

Later, when he's lying in bed and trying to figure out how to breathe without pain--Seifer managed to get his foot into Squall's rib cage, but Squall's pretty sure he broke Seifer's nose in retaliation--he finds himself wondering why they're still even something remotely like friends.

Too much competition, too much rivalry between them. It's ridiculous, really. He tries to look at it from Seifer's point of view, and then finds that really, he doesn't care what Seifer thinks.

_xx_

He doesn't remember getting up, only that he's now charging Seifer, Lionheart sailing upward. The steel screams in the electrified air.

Seifer's blood splatters across his cheek.

They both stop, chests heaving and gunblades heavy at their sides. Seifer reaches to touch the gash across his face, and then smiles strangely.

"I finally got a real fight from you, and all I had to do was cut your face open."

The first drops of rain fall.


End file.
